A Door To Elsewhere
by curlylinguist
Summary: 9 months since John Watson was invalided home from Afghanistan finds him severely depressed with his life lying in tatters around him. That is, until the fateful day he meets a homeless man on the tube who is not quite all he seems. And for John, what starts out as the worst mistake of his life, may prove to be the one thing that can save him. Johnlock. Mystrade. M for language.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** Disclaimer: Everything (obviously) belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Neil Gaiman, all of whom I utterly adore. Sadly, all I own is the plot. ;)

Many thanks to my amazing betas, Lemonadeflowers, treadsoftlyonmydreams and starandcompass (you can find them on AO3), without whom I would never have been able to do this. I love you guys. A lot.

P.S. While I'm not entirely new to the whole creative writing thing, this is my first ever fic *gulp* so any kind of feedback would be really really amazing and humbly accepted! (Pwetty please?)

Anyhoo, ENJOY!

**Prologue (1990): **

_Running. It was all he knew, all he could do now. The heavy thud of each step loud on the cold, wet tunnel floor, pushing one foot in front of the other, he had to force himself to keep moving. As numerous passageways flew past; he had no idea where each one led, no idea where he was and no idea where he was going. It felt like he'd been running for hours, for days, never stopping. Across the muddy moors of Dartmoor, through the cold, dank, dark tunnels and passages below London. Never stopping. Only running. If he stopped, It would surely get him._

"It had only been a game!"_ he wanted to cry, tried desperately to force it back. "_Stop it! It's not funny anymore, Jim!"_ He could feel tears of fear and exhaustion oozing down his face. He swiped at them furiously and ran faster, forcing his weary legs to keep on moving. He could hear the Beast, the Hound, panting and growling behind him, could hear the sharp clack of Its claws through the darkness. He risked a glance over his shoulder, trying to gauge the distance. Piercing, red eyes leered out at him through the blackness. With a vicious growl, Its powerful hind legs drove it closer, no more than 50 meters away. He knew it was now or never. He dived head first into the next passageway, throwing himself at the wall._

"A door, a door…"_ he muttered to himself, helplessly pushing at the slimy stone surrounding him, enclosed in darkness. He could hear each ragged breath tear through his heaving chest, the Beast would find him, would rip him apart, just like Jim had said it would… Fear griped at his heart. He felt sick. _NO!_ He almost screamed it aloud. He was becoming more and more desperate, and with no door in sight, he realised what he had to do. He groped around in the darkness, searching for the invisible opening as his brother always seemed to do with such ease. He had never tried this before, but now he had no choice. After all, there had to be a first time for everything. Summoning all of his strength, his fear and his desperation, he pushed at the hard, black stone, searching for an opening. _

_There was a low, rumbling snarl behind him. Black dread jarred through his stomach. The Thing was slowly stalking up towards him, hunting Its prey, as though It had all the time in the world, jaws wide open and salivating, revealing rows of monstrous, razor-sharp canines. He pushed frantically at the wall, thinking desperately of home, Mycroft and light. Safety. Anything. "_If this is the last door I open_," he prayed, silently, "_take me somewhere… Anywhere… Safe_..."and then he thought wildly, _"Somebody."_ The stone in front of him began to move, white light was blinding him, he was shoving it away, forcing his body through, he didn't care where, giddy with euphoria at having won, all thoughts of Jim and his betrayal finally lost. It was then that he felt the burn of something sharp and hot slashing viciously across his back. He fell forwards; face down towards the light with a cry, dimly aware of the receding sound of high pitched laughter and low growling as the door shuddered closed, vanishing behind him._

_Through the blinding pain of heat, deep across his back, Sherlock Holmes finally began to slip into unconsciousness, as the childlike, sing-song voice of his best and only__friend echoed inside his head in an endless loop, _"I'm going to get you, I'm going to get you…"

John lay on his back in the long grass at the edge of the park, arms stretched out behind his head, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sun on his face. This was it. Summer. No more school, no more exams, 6 whole weeks of pure bliss. Of course there was university to worry about next year, but he had done almost all his research and had even written his personal statement ready to be sent off come September. He had dreamt of being a doctor since he was small, barely 6 years old, and had patched his clumsy big sister up after one of her many accidents. He realised later on that he took after his mother in that regard. Lately, he had taken to daydreaming of becoming a surgeon, always in the centre of the action, saving lives…

He ran a hand through his short blond hair and sighed, content. For now though, he was happy to just relax and enjoy himself. Meet some girls – maybe even a few boys - go to parties, have a bit of fun…

Grinning broadly, he rolled onto his side to glance across at his friends and the make-shift rugby pitch they'd made together out of their bags. It was 5 aside and only for a laugh, but John's team were already winning. He flopped over onto his back again, rolling around lazily in the grass a little to cool down. The heat wave they had been promised was already in full swing. There was barely a breeze.

Something dark and spattered with red caught his eye as it fell suddenly from behind a tree, face first into the dry grass with a pained cry. John sat up quickly, immediately alert. A small, dark haired boy was whimpering as he bled copiously into the grass. Shit.

John was kneeling over him in a heartbeat, adrenaline pumping through his veins, yanking off his own t-shirt to try and stem the bleeding.

"J-Jimmy?" the kid stammered, his pale, frightened eyes staring up at John. "Myc…"

"It's alright," John tried to tell him, pushing down hard on the gaping wound. "You're alright, I promise." But the boy had already passed out.

"Oi!" He shouted urgently at his mates, cursing inwardly at having wondered so far from the pitch. "Call an ambulance, help me! There's a fucking kid over here bleeding fucking everywhere!" No one seemed to hear him. They didn't even look up.

"Get the bloody hell over here!" He practically screamed. What the fuck was wrong with them?! The boy was beginning to stir again, the bleeding from his back seemingly beginning to stop. He coughed violently before vomiting into the grass.

"Hey, hey! Easy, kid, it's alright. We're going to take you hospital and the doctors will sort you out, ok?"

"NO! N-no hospital… They'll find me, s'not, not safe. Take me somewhere safe." The boy struggled pathetically against him, trying to get up. Even in his semi-delirious state, Sherlock knew that anywhere was safer than a hospital with its meticulous records and awkward questions. He would be only too easy to track down, and after all that had happened so far, even he wasn't arrogant enough to imagine that he could possibly survive a second chase. "Please! I mustn't go!" he moaned.

"But you're bleeding." said John, trying to calm him. "You need the hospital." But once again there was no answer.

"John," Mike Stamford was jogging over. Thank god, at last. "Aren't you coming to play?"

"What?! Mike, he's hurt! I can't just leave him for crying out loud!"

"Who's hurt?" He looked down at the boy in John's arms as though he had only just realised he was there. "Ahh, it doesn't look that bad, mate. I'm sure he'll be fine, his parents will be around here somewhere."

"What the bloody hell are you on about?! He was bleeding all over the grass a minute ago for God's sake!"

"Yeah, well, he's clearly not now, is he?" Mike was shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot, obviously wanting to head back to the others. But John was already lifting the boy up over his muscular shoulder in a fireman's lift. "Are you out of your mind Watson, what're you doing?"

"I'm going to take him home, ok? Make sure he's alright. You don't need me to play."

"What?! You can't just leave Johnny-boy!" Some of the other lads were coming over now. "We've only just got started. What's wrong with that kid?"

"Stop being such a tit, we're winning!"

"Put him the fuck down."

"No." said John coolly, glaring at his friends. He could feel warm blood drying on his bare torso. Sometimes, he realised, there's just nothing you can do. He turned slowly, careful not to jostle and hurt the boy any more than was necessary, and walked out of the park.

Thank God it was Wednesday, John thought as he walked the short distance home. His father would have gone straight from work to the local pub. John didn't expect to see him until well into the early hours and even then he would likely be so pissed that he'd barely remember his own name, let alone realise that his son had brought a strange boy into their flat. His mother was working a late shift at the hospital tonight, probably so she wouldn't have to see Dad, John thought bitterly to himself. Harry was sleeping over at her best friend (and on-again, off-again girlfriend) Clara's tonight too, so John would have the place to himself.

He refused to let himself think about how ridiculous the situation was. Somewhere in the sensible part of his head, someone – a normal, sensible John Watson – was telling him how crazy he was being. He didn't know this boy at all. He had practically fallen out of the sky for crying out loud! This normal, sensible John was pestering him that you shouldn't lift injured people, let alone carry them that half mile back to his sad little flat, and that he should have just phoned for an ambulance. Yet, the boy had seemed so terrified. It seemed like more than simple white-coat syndrome at any rate. He couldn't be much over 10 years old. And oddly enough his bleeding _was_ stopping much faster than John thought was normal. He would phone for a doctor when he got home, he decided, trying to quell his uneasy thoughts as he put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the alarmed looks he was getting from passers-by.

The boy began to stir in his arms just as he was walking up his street.

"Hey," he said gently as the pale blue eyes turned curiously to face him, "I'm John, John Watson. I'm taking you somewhere safe. What's your name?"

"Sherlock." The boy mumbled, winding his arms around John's neck, holding tight and hissing slightly in pain. John felt a few hot, wet tears dripping onto his bare shoulder.

He carried him all the way up through the ground floor door of his building and gently up the stairs to the flat. Where he promptly realised he'd left his keys with the rest of his things back at the park. Crap. Sherlock lifted a blood stained hand to the door and it fell open easily at his touch. _It can't have been locked properly, thank God, _John thought as he walked in, taking Sherlock straight to the small bedroom just off the kitchen, which belonged to him. He carefully untangled the little hands from around his neck and laid him flat on his stomach on the bed.

_The wound looks smaller_, John thought to himself, then dismissed it- _probably just an illusion since there's less blood now._ He fetched a towel, some antiseptic cream from his mother's first aid box and some clean clothes, then began to clean up and dress the wound as best he could, trying to ignore the small hisses of pain, before dressing the semi-conscious boy in an old t-shirt, letting the soft material fall gently to his knees. John had never been especially tall for his age, but Sherlock really was tiny in every possible way. He'd have barely reached John's chest standing up and was so skinny that John could easily make out his ribs even through the material of the t-shirt. The boy was beginning to nod off, head lolling and eyes drooping as he leaned against John's shoulder whilst being dressed. Bizarrely, John was reminded of Harry's precious porcelain dolls, the ones he'd never been allowed to touch, a gift from their grandparents before he had been born. John gently shook a skinny arm to rouse the boy before turning him onto his tummy once again and tucking him into bed.

"Look," John whispered to him, gently stroking the damp, dark curls off his face as he sat by him, "I'm going to call a doctor now, I've patched you up as best I ca-"

"No! No, I don't need a doctor! I'll be fine in the morning; honestly, it's not as bad as it looks!"

"Look - that's a stupidly deep cut!" John insisted, "I can't leave you like this, what would your parents say!"

"I'm nearly 12 years old. I don't need anyone, I can look after myself!" Sherlock huffed, face down on the pillows. After a moment, he added quietly, "They're dead…" Sherlock thought about what Mycroft had always told him. His parents had been brave. They'd died protecting _them_, he'd said. He had to stay safe, hidden and make sure they hadn't died in vain. _'Caring is not an advantage,' _their voices echoed in his mind. They were right. They had died. He had cared about Jim too. Thought he was his best friend even, and then he had tricked him. This hurt Sherlock, far more than he would care to admit. He couldn't help but envy Jim and his cleverness. He'd had no idea of his plans.

Smarty-pants Mycroft had obviously been right then. Sherlock _was_ an idiot. He'd nearly died because he'd trusted Jim. Even this Johnjohnwatson was beginning to make the same mistake. Just by taking him home and looking after him, he was unknowingly putting himself in danger to save a boy he had found bleeding in a park that afternoon. Stupid. For Sherlock had now realised that this was London Above. And oh, how he ached to explore and experiment! If only his back wasn't so painful and he wasn't quite so sleepy…

"I'll be fine. I just need some sleep. Please?" He murmured, looking up at John with his tear-stained face, pale blue eyes wide, pleading and innocent; Sherlock was already an expert manipulator.

John knew that he really should phone a doctor, just in case, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. _"They'll find me" _Sherlock had said when he'd first suggested the hospital, _"Take me somewhere safe." _The poor kid had clearly been through some sort of trauma and the thought of moving him against his will didn't sit well with John at all. Besides he was 11 – a perfectly reasonable age to access the severity of his own injuries, surely? At the age of 10, John had been glassed in the face - a result of the first of his Father's drunken rages. He hadn't wanted to tell his mother or the school, obviously, so had simply sorted himself out. No one seemed to doubt him when he told them he fell over.

He shook his head to pull himself out of his reverie. There was no point in dwelling on the past. Sherlock would be fine anyway. John knew he had done a good job with the dressings; he certainly wouldn't bleed to death at any rate.

"Ok, you know what? Fine." John huffed out irritably, "But only because it's late. And only on the condition that I call a proper doctor tomorrow!" But John's terms fell on deaf ears, Sherlock was already deeply asleep, the messy, ebony curls on his forehead bobbing slightly with each peaceful exhale.

John was running on autopilot as he reheated yesterday's soup on the hob. He could not stop thinking about what had happened. Where had Sherlock come from? How had he hurt himself that badly? Yes, his parents were dead, but surely he had some sort of family! Where the fuck were they? But most importantly, who was he trying to hide from? What could he possibly have been so scared of? As he ate his soup – after putting a portion on the bedside table for Sherlock, who nevertheless had shown no signs of waking - he let his mind wander over endless possibilities, each more ridiculous than the next…

_Get a grip, John! _He told himself eventually as he scrubbed the dried and congealed blood from his tanned body later in the shower. He knew he was being stupid, there was probably a very boring, very normal, long-winded explanation waiting for him in the morning.

He tried to distract himself from his ridiculous thoughts – he had definitely been watching too much Doctor Who recently - by putting on his favourite Bond film on their crappy second-hand TV instead, but found he was unable to concentrate through even the first few minutes of _Dr. No_. Sighing wearily, he shuffled over to his bedroom.

Sherlock was still deeply asleep on his front in John's small, single bed, limbs splayed out in an X shape. Beneath his shaggy mop of dark curls, his face looked so peaceful and innocent that John couldn't bear to disturb him, even for food. He pulled back the covers carefully instead so as not to wake the boy. He gently lifted up the t-shirt to inspect the wound, expecting more pus and blood. Yet, Sherlock's back looked almost normal. There was a dark red, angry mark running diagonally from his right shoulder along to the left side of his bony, white hip, but it looked more like a month-old scar than the vicious gash John had treated earlier. John blinked confusedly at it for a moment or so, then, resigning himself to the fact that this was probably the oddest day he'd ever had - and ever would have - and deciding he was sure there'd be a sensible explanation for everything in the morning, he gently tucked the sleeping boy back up again. Suddenly exhausted, he collapsed into his desk chair with the intention of keeping an eye on his charge, pulling a blanket up off the floor and firmly around himself, but almost instantly fell deeply asleep.

After hours of trawling through every surveillance camera in every fiefdom and barony of London Below, Mycroft Holmes had been getting increasingly desperate. The last glimpse of his little brother had shown him in a tunnel near Charing Cross, being chased mercilessly by Sebastian Moran's Hound. He had seen Sherlock fall through a door into God knows where and it had been proving impossible for him to pick up any kind of signal again. Terrified for his baby brother's life (_again_, he thought bitterly to himself) but not knowing where else to turn, Mycroft had finally resorted to desperately searching through London Above; determined to find Sherlock and bring him back to safety.

"By the Temple and the Arch..." He had cursed a seemingly endless twenty-five minutes later. He had found grainy, yet clear footage of Sherlock, small, pale, shaking and covered in his own blood, being carried carefully down a street somewhere in Brixton by a well-built sixteen year old. Mycroft tracked them via different cameras until they reached their final destination. Much to his later disgust, he had been on the verge of screaming by this point, well aware that this footage had been recorded several hours ago and that if the youth had had bad intentions it would be far too late for Mycroft to save him now. However, as he watched them steadily climb the stairs up to the flat, Mycroft could clearly see the care that the teen was taking with his brother, and had abruptly felt his fears lessen somewhat. He had watched them enter the flat where his surveillance obviously didn't reach. He fast-forwarded the tape monitoring the door, watching as first an appallingly inebriated middle-aged man and then a tired looking woman in a nurse's uniform entered the flat. They resembled the teen, clearly his parents. Mycroft looked at his watch. It was 4am. They'd all be fast asleep by now. Perfect.

Rolling up his sleeves, he walked briskly to the door of his office. As he grasped the handle a shadow passed briefly across his face, before he opened the door and stepped through. The youth's bedroom was small, yet homely. There were photos on the walls, older ones of a fresh faced, young and happy family and newer ones of teenage friends. _Clearly a broken family, _thought Mycroft_._ Older, happier memories tacked up to focus on when the shouting started in the next door room. He thought back to the man on the door step earlier, the father was clearly an alcoholic, a fairly new development if the photos were anything to go by…

There were posters on the wall bearing the phrases _'007'_ and '_Doctor Who'_ with groups of strangely dressed people on them. One wore a hideous jumper covered in question marks and an ugly panama hat. Some didn't even look human! Mycroft was astonished; even he simply didn't know what to make of them. London Above was an entirely new world...

A medical textbook lay open on the desk at a page on cuts. Feeling a vague, unfamiliar stirring somewhere deep in his chest, he glanced at the teen – John H. Watson, according to a music certificate pinned on the wall – who was fast asleep on an uncomfortable looking desk chair. He walked silently towards the bed, peeling back the covers gently, lest he wake Sherlock. His back was, of course, merely scarred now and at this rate would be fully healed within the week, but all the same it was only upon seeing the evidence for himself that Mycroft was finally able to relax. He had to get Sherlock home, needed to keep him safe. He felt his brother's eyes; bright blue and wide, focusing on him, instantly awake.

"Mycroft." he said quietly, with distrust, sitting up slowly as though still in pain. "Why didn't you come for me before? I was running, the Hound, It-"

"Hush, brother. Now is not the time. I was… Otherwise engaged, I'm afraid. Temple and Arch, we must go now, Sherlock, come on."

"Don't want to go with you. Johnjohnwatson is much nicer than you. He looked after me when no one else did." Sherlock didn't know what made him say that. '_Caring is not an advantage.'_ he recited to himself as he eased his way out of the soft, warm bed. He noticed the soup on the bedside table – cold now – and downed it all greedily in one long slurp. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. It must've been days ago... Mycroft grabbed his wrist tightly. Sherlock wrenched himself free.

"I'm not a _child_, Mycroft." he hissed through the darkness, still mindful of the sleeping teenager in the chair behind him. Turning away, Sherlock reached deep into his pockets, rummaging around. He pulled out a button, a rainbow pebble, a brass ring and a yellowing map of the underground. Ignoring Mycroft's tutting at the 'filth you manage to find – _honestly_, Sherlock you're as bad as the Sewer Folk-' He set them down carefully on top of the medical book at John's desk. Then he leaned carefully over the desk, mindful of his still throbbing back, and examined all the small, every-day objects that lay there with wonder and fascination. He picked up a plastic retractable pen – one of those gimmicky free ones you pick up at university open days: John had been given this particular one at Bart's hospital on the QMUL open day a few weeks before – and studied it closely as though unsure of its purpose. Curiously he clicked it and openly gaped with surprise as the ballpoint tip poked out of the end. Excitedly he grabbed a corner of the textbook, pulled it towards himself and carefully inscribed the initials _'SH'_ into the margin. Delighted with his discovery, he clicked the pen once more, grinning broadly and pocketed it. "_To remember a perfect day,"_ he told himself solemnly, both precocious and naïve all at once.

He could feel Mycroft's eyes burning holes in the back of his head. He turned, glaring at his brother and his ridiculous raised eyebrow as though daring him to speak and followed him from the room. Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back for one last look at the day's excitement. At London Above. And at Johnjohnwatson…

When John awoke the next day to the mid-morning sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, muscles knotted and aching after a night in his desk chair, he would not remember Sherlock. He would have no memory of carrying the bleeding boy home from the park and cleaning him up, tucking him into his bed and caring for him. Instead, he would remember a perfectly ordinary, happy, first day of summer, where he had carelessly managed to get heat-stroke playing rugby with his friends and had had to go home early. He found the button, rainbow pebble, brass ring and yellowing map on his medical textbook though. He had no idea where they had come from, yet years later even, he would find he could never quite bring himself to throw them away…


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1 (2010):**

_ There was a scream. _

_ Blood. Thick and sticky. There were globules of it dripping from his hands. He could feel the horror etched across his face. _

Come on. Focus now, John. Pressure on the wound. Push.

_ Shouting. Copper smears all over the desert sand,__soaking into the khaki. _

No.

It wasn't Afghanistan at all. He wasn't a soldier. Something else.

A civilian?

_Emerald green grass, vivid in the summer sun, hot on his naked back. A tattered t-shirt. Pulsing, ruby red stains. A child. A boy. In his arms. _

"_Sherlock." The name was mumbled, breathed into his skin. Blood was mixing with tears on his shoulder._

_Bandages. Food. A scar. _

But what had happened to the wound?

_Sleep._

_Sleep. _

Sleep…

Dr John H. Watson, MD, former captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers awoke slowly to the familiar sight of the miserable hovel that had been his bedsit for the past 9 months. Bright spring sunlight was streaming in through the hastily drawn curtains at the window by his bed. It bathed his face in a warm glow, illuminating the bare, dusty space of the small, sparsely furnished flat. A sweet chorus of bird song could be heard faintly outside, despite the built-up location. The John Watson of only a few years ago upon waking up to such a morning (whilst on leave from active service) might have practically hopped out of bed with an easy smile on his tanned face. He'd have opened the windows to breathe in the cool, familiar air of home, such a contrast to the stifling heat of the desert, with its permanent tang of gunpowder and stench of fear. Perhaps he'd have taken a walk, through the city, his home, the luscious green parks where he'd messed around with a rugby ball and some friends as a kid, maybe even the more touristy locations of Trafalgar square, where his mum used to take him and Harry when they were little if he fancied a real nostalgic trip down memory lane. However, the John Watson of today was a very different man.

Our John, upon awakening on such a morning, was barely even aware of the light, warmth and birdsong which finally signalled the end of a harsh winter. In fact, if they even registered at all, they were met simply with his unwavering frustration.

Instead, he was instantly aware of two things: First, that for the first time in the afore-mentioned past 9 months, he had slept peacefully. He had not awoken to the explosive sounds of endless gunfire ringing in his ears; his dream had not revolved around the battlefield and that precise moment the bullet had pierced his shoulder, ending not only his career, but his entire world.

The second thing he realised was that this different dream was not even a figment of his imagination, but a childhood memory. It had to be. It refused to fade, as most dreams do almost instantly after you wake up. It was as though a door had been unlocked inside his head, he could see it much more vividly now, no longer through the fog of unconsciousness: His 16 year old self carrying the bleeding 11 year old (Sherlock, he had said his name was Sherlock) from the park to his parents' flat, treating his injury, falling asleep at his desk… He had no idea what had happened after that though. Or even why he had forgotten this memory until now. To be honest though, at the moment, he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

Grunting, he glanced over at his alarm clock by the bed. 10am. Jesus. Since he'd returned from Afghanistan he had never woken up later than 5 in the morning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so long. Bloody nightmares. He knew now that he'd ruined everything, of course. Trying to fight for his country, help people and save lives, only to have destroyed his own. Oh, the irony - it was almost laughable. There had been times when he had tried to shake it all off, to laugh and make the most of a bad job. Wanting to try and start all over again…

"_It'll get better, John."_ They'd all said it.

No one wanted him though. _Obviously, _he'd think bitterly to himself, over and over again. Who the hell could possibly need an old, broken, unstable ex-army doctor with a tremor in his left hand and a fucking limp? He'd been shot in the shoulder anyway for Christ's sake! Who the fuck gets shot in the shoulder and ends up with a sodding limp?! He lay back and stared blankly at the grimy, off white ceiling above him watching it blink slowly in and out of focus…

Sometimes the bumpy pattern in the lumpy, cheaply-made plaster would move around as he watched it, forming patterns in the ceiling. He liked to watch that. It was relaxing, calming almost. The sun, a rugby ball, a funny hat… (It always started off small.) A smiley face, then a light bulb, then a cane… Sometimes, of course, he wished that it had all just ended out on the Afghan Desert. It would've been far less painful in the long run. He would never have had to deal with his failures: that last, poor boy he had been treating out on the warm sand, hands steady for the last time just before the fated gunshot sounded… That boy, that _child_, could still be alive now; John himself would still be where he belonged, out in the desert sun, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he worked against the clock to save lives. A stethoscope, a jumper, a gun…

A gun.

"_You've got one of those, you know," _said a crawling voice quietly in the back of John's head. "_In the drawer of your bedside table. Just in case, of course." _it whispered, slithering through his mind.

The abnormality of the situation, of _another_ voice in his head, one that he was unable to control, barely registered with John. He didn't even blink. He liked watching the pretend pictures. They soothed the pain. Made it go away for a while. The addition of this _other_ voice merely confirmed what he had already started to suspect. He was slowly drifting towards insanity. John realised this did not alarm him as much as it should. But he didn't care. If anything it was almost calming to finally know where he was headed in the long run.

"_You could do it, you know." _The hissing voice was back. It was an odd sensation, he mused, the way it crept about inside his head, pushing through his thoughts, as though it were running its hands gently through water or sand. It was reading everything he had ever known, experienced or remembered as easily as flicking through the pages of a child's picture book.

"Do what?" After a short pause, John was aware that he'd spoken aloud, but he couldn't help himself. A small smile touched his lips for a fraction of a second.

"_Kill yourself. Commit Suicide. Take that exquisite gun that's tucked away just over there, put it to your forehead and blow your brains out. It would hardly hurt. You know that, don't you? Doctor…"_

"No. No, come on. I-I couldn't kill myself." He frowned thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on the gun shape on the ceiling, muscles relaxed, arms behind his head: the very picture of ease. The weapon was steadily becoming more and more vivid, bigger and bigger, the delicate details cutting into the sharp black metal in front of his eyes in full 3D. His shoulder was starting to twinge.

"_And then it would ALL be over…"_

His frown deepened further, the image above him vaporising in an almost cartoon-esque puff of smoke as he waved it away with a swipe of his hand.

"_It doesn't need to be like this, John, does it? You don't need to be hurting. The pain. No one understands it do they? Not that therapist, certainly. Not Harry, with her perfect little life. And wouldn't your old Major Sholto be so disappointed in the way you've turned out as a civilian? His little army protégé. Now nothing more than a pathetic invalid rotting in this hovel. No use to ANYONE anymore. Surely?"_

Almost without his consent, John was beginning to sit up, automatically stretching out his stiff shoulder, grunting a little with the pain. He swung his legs carefully over the side of the bed and reached out to the bedside table, like a curious, nosy child.

"_Just__do it…"_

He pulled open the drawer. The Sig Sauer stared up at him out of it, all sleekness, elegance and danger perfectly wrapped up in the cold, black metal. John could feel the old, yet still familiar thrill of adrenaline begin at his fingertips without even having touched it. He reached out a steady left hand, his focus so intent that the irony was completely lost on him, and firmly grasped the handle. He lifted it lovingly from the drawer, as though cradling a new-born.

"_That's it, John…" _crooned the voice, gently persuasive, its warm breath prickling behind his left ear now. John chuckled softly to himself, rolling the gun around in his hands. He could do it. Could easily do it. One shot and everything would be over. The only emotion he could feel was relief.

He was not an especially religious man. He knew that most likely that would be it. The end. But somehow he found he didn't mind. God, or Whoever, had already fucked him over enough for one lifetime.

On the other hand, his mum had always believed in the afterlife, Heaven, Whatever. That's where he always pictured her. Happy, high up, surrounded by clouds and soft, warm light. Even as an adult, he'd never quite managed to shake those childish imaginings of eternal beauty and life. He'd never known his grandparents. Throughout his childhood whenever he'd asked after them his mother would reply that they were up in Heaven. "_One day,"_ she had said, "_you and I and Dad and Harry, we'll be up there with them too. We'll see them again."_ He had been barely 3 or 4 at the time and had gleefully imagined the fun of playing hide-and-seek amongst the clouds. It had been about 15 years later, the summer of his 18th birthday when his drunk, arsehole of a father had finally driven her to an early grave. His inner child, only just buried under the surface, had re-emerged almost in full at the bereavement and he had been unable to prevent himself from imagining her up There, wherever There was, arms wrapped loosely around his grandparents, smiling down at him, wanting him to live a happy life. It had been this image which had helped most to ease the pain of the hole punched right the way through his heart; he had been unable to picture her anywhere else. He missed her still, he realised, even after 19 years. Suddenly, he found himself desperately wanting to see her again.

"_Do it!" _the voice was back, dragging him abruptly from his reverie.

He found he had very little resistance anymore. What was the point of staying here and rotting away?

He brought the handgun up in front of his face, _to examine it more closely,_ he told himself. He wouldn't have to, though anything would be better than this. It really was a beautiful weapon. Sleek, shiny. It had served him well. He could go out on a high this way. His terms.

"_DO. IT." t_he deep voice hissed sharply in his ears. His head was steadily filling with white noise, like the whistling of a kettle reverberating around the inside of his skull.

The phone rang.

The fog that had been clouding his head swiftly evaporated, the whistling stopped, the eerie scratching of the voice departed. He was alone once again.

He suddenly realised what he had been about to do and recoiled backwards on the bed with violent shock, thrusting the gun across the room as hard and as far away from himself as he could. The Sig hit the opposite wall with a loud, satisfying _crack, _leaving a nasty dent in the wall_._ Shock reverberated through his body. He found himself needing to take great, gasping breaths through his mouth. Horrifyingly, a sob wracked its way through his chest. He raised a hand to his mouth, pushing down hard, trying to contain himself and ball everything back up inside. It didn't work. He slumped face-down in the cool pillows, exhausted, eventually conceding defeat, and let the tears come. The ringing phone lay on the bedside table, forgotten.

The next time he looked at the clock it was 12.31 and his phone was beeping incessantly at him again. Blearily he looked down at it and saw the flashing reminder light up the screen. '_Great_,' he thought, '_therapy.' _He lay back staring at the ceiling once again, a shaking left hand fumbling with the corner of the frayed, cheap duvet. John hated therapy. Just the thought of his useless therapist, Ella, made him feel physically sick. Suddenly, the memories of that morning came swarming back. Jesus Christ.

Fuck.

How had it happened? How could he possibly have let _that _happen?! Of all things, the one that he had sworn he would never do, no matter how bad it got. Out on '_his own terms'_, fucking hell, what a complete fucking joke! Christ, what was wrong with him?! Hearing voices, hallucinating… That dream earlier! Had that been a fucking hallucination too?! It had felt so real at the time, but so had that sodding voice! He had felt sure it had been a repressed memory – he'd lost count of the number of times he'd been told that that often happens to PTSD sufferers. But then again, how the Hell could it seriously have happened? Shit, how the fuck had he let himself slip so much without even realising?! And what if it happens again?

_No. _

_Stop. _

_Get a fucking grip, Watson. _

John took a deep, shaking breath. _Steady._ _Calm._ He released it. Then breathed in again, steadying himself further. The last thing he needed now was a panic attack - at least his medical training was still good for something.

He knew with absolute certainty that no one must know; he would be hospitalised for sure. And if there was one thing that John Watson knew, it was that he could not, and he would survive that. It would be worse than dying. Certainly much worse than therapy at any rate. The pity, the shame, the patronising doctors, tests, the knowledge, medically, _scientifically_ proven, that his brain was steadily eating itself from the inside out and that there was little more anyone could do – he couldn't stand it. No.

No one will know.

The phone was still beeping on the table beside him, grating against his increasingly frayed nerves. He turned it off with a lot more force than was necessary and slammed it back onto the cabinet aggressively, the drawers rattling in protest. He didn't give a shit if the phone screen cracked anymore. It might even be a good excuse for him to stop answering Harry's stupid calls. He knew she only did it because she cared, but John really couldn't help his resentment. He just couldn't stand therapy. At first he felt the talking was helping him adjust and begin to cope with civilian life, though he soon realised it was doing the complete opposite. Endless question after endless question in that monotone, uninterested voice, the words blurring together as he struggled to focus, concentrate, and answer.

"_And how are you feeling today, John?" The false brightness in her voice made him cringe inwardly._

"_How's your blog going?" Fuck's sake. Is it really that hard to ask something original?_

"_Yeah, good. Very good."_

"_You haven't written a word, have you?" Her fake smiles made him feel sick._

What was there to write about? Nothing ever happened to him. Nothing interesting ever _would_ happen to an old, quite possibly clinically insane, mentally unstable, ex-army doctor. He craved adrenalin, he longed for it. And now these sodding hallucinations had started, surely it was just the beginning of the end? _No. Stop that train of thought right there, Watson._

That had all been about 3 months ago now, and the conversations hadn't changed much. Ella would continue, as ever, to fake the concern in her expressions and tone and drone on endlessly about what he 'needed to do with his life' and 'all the great things he could still achieve'. He really didn't know why he bothered going anymore.

And no one can know. He would keep these fucking hallucinations a secret even if it killed him.

He had to. But even _she_ would know that something was wrong if he didn't turn up. How good was his poker face? He had always been a shite gambler.

His phone rang, making him jump.

"Piss off, Harry!" he mumbled into his pillow, rolling over face down into the hard mattress. She was the last thing he needed right now. He let the phone ring. Barely half a minute later the text alert sounded. Reflexively, he picked it up, blinking blearily at the sudden light from the flashing screen.

_JOHN HAMISH WATSON IF YOU DON'T PICK UP THE BLOODY PHONE I WILL MARCH STRAIGHT ROUND THERE TO LIVE ON YOUR SOFA FOR THE NEXT MONTH SO HELP ME GOD I AM GIVING YOU 2 MINUTES._

John forced himself to sit up slowly, trying to breathe deeply as he put his head in his shaking hands. Harry was trying so hard now. She really had cleaned up her act since her divorce over a year ago - she and Clara had even managed to delicately rekindle their relationship. They were going steady again. John would have felt so proud of her, sorting everything out on her own while he was getting shot at in Afghanistan. He wanted to feel proud, but for the last few months, all he had been able to feel was exhaustion and pain pushing down at him from above. It felt as though God was shrinking and moulding him into the pathetic, miserable, broken excuse for a man that he had become, laughing openly in John's face at his helplessness and giving him the middle finger.

The phone rang again; shrill in the silence of the flat, grating on John's nerves, dragging him back to reality. He stared at it impassively for a few moments more. What the hell. He wasn't too sure whether she'd been joking about the sofa or not anyway and that was the last thing he needed right now! He took a deep, steadying breath and answered.

"Right, John, that's it, get your arse out of bed right now, I'll be over in 15 minutes to bloody well drive you to that therapy session if I have to!" Harry's loud voice boomed down the line, annoyingly cheerful, as per usual.

"How do you know I haven't got up yet?" he mumbled groggily into the receiver. There was no point in even bothering with pretences anymore. Not with Harry anyway, Ella could stuff it.

"Because the same thing has been happening for the last 6 weeks, John! I'm not stupid, you know. Whenever I come round, even if it's half sodding 4 in the afternoon, you'll just be sat there on the sofa in your PJs staring into space! God only knows if you've actually eaten anything…"

"Right. Sure. Whatever, Harry."

"Come on, Johnny. You know how important this is. Ella said you've really been improving recently…"

John scoffed. "Oh, come on! We both know that's a lie."

"Johnny, come on, please! I know this hard this is for you. That's why you need to go." She sighed and then whispered quietly "I miss you, Johnny. I need you to get better." And oh, God, why did she have to use that tone of voice? He hated it! Harry wasn't supposed to be like this at all! She wasn't supposed to worry, that had always been _his_ job. _She_ was the life and soul of the party, the social butterfly, a constant smile on her face, flitting from person to person, flirting openly, and laughing, living life vivaciously on the edge… He couldn't bear that he was the one to burst her bubble and hold her back, not now she was doing so well. She, most of all, really mustn't know. He couldn't be the one responsible for her relapse. He just couldn't.

He sighed deeply, running a hand over his warm face and through his meticulously cut blond hair, prematurely streaked with grey. He'd just have to hold up the fort. He could do it. For Harry, he would keep going.

"Alright, alright, you can stop your nagging. I'll go, ok? Of course, I'll go. It was stupid of me to think otherwise. I want it to get better too."

God, Harry was such a bitch. She always knew how to manipulate him in just the right way. She knew exactly what to say to make him do whatever it was she wanted. It had always been like that though, he supposed, since they were kids. It had always seemed so easy for her to play the stereotypical role of 'Big Sister' and boss him about. He'd lost count of the number of times she'd blackmailed him into covering for her whilst she went to all her various parties to play Miss Popular and get smashed. _"I'll tell Dad about that bloke you snogged at Mike's last week!" or "I'll tell him it was you who nicked all those beers the other day!" _Most of the stuff she had threatened to say hadn't even been true as he remembered it! But he had always known it had really all been a joke. A joke that he had loved to play along with at that, if he was honest with himself. He didn't blame her, not at all. It had always been John and Harry united against the evil force of Dad, ever since he could remember. Anything they could do to get away from him, anything to help each other hide. And anything to pretend their home lives weren't so vile and that they didn't constantly live in fear of the next violent, drunken rage…

Grabbing his cane roughly from where it stood against the wall, John finally managed to haul himself out of bed to get dressed. He couldn't be bothered with showering. Who was going to see him today anyway? Women had long stopped showing signs of interest.

Therapy would be for the best anyway. He was feeling fairly confident now that he could keep all outward signs of his impending descent into insanity hidden. Harry had seemed no different to normal on the phone and he inwardly congratulated himself. They normally had these conversations about twice a week now anyway. The arguments were always the same, and she always won. He was sure that today he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary; it was no secret how much he detested those therapy sessions. She was the one single person who knew him best and if he had her fooled, anyone else should be a piece of cake. It was almost a challenge to set himself. How many people could he fool today? _How bloody pathetically poetic,_ he thought staggering into his jeans, leg aching like hell, as he tried not to fall.

He caught sight of the Sig lying on the floor at the other end of the room. Suppressing a shudder, he limped over and stared down at it. He'd have to put it somewhere safe. Somewhere he wouldn't be able to find it easily again when (_IF, _he told himself firmly) he slipped back under once more. He picked it up, the metal cold and heavy in his trembling hand. It had served him well. Never fired even one single rogue shot with it. Firmly closing the door on the section of his mind that had already started to pull at loose threads, John staggered into the kitchen. The limp was always worst in the mornings. After the endless hours lying in bed.

Although almost every sense his body possessed seemed to be screaming at him not to do it, John determinedly dismantled his gun. _Keep that door shut. Don't let them get out. _Mechanically, he twisted around the small work surfaces, placing each piece in a separate place with deliberate precision. The fridge, the cupboard under the sink, the microwave, right on the top of one of the units… Hoping that would be sufficient and feeling bitterly satisfied with himself, he collapsed down onto the lumpy sofa, yanking his gammy leg out from underneath himself with practised ease.

He was once again lost in thought by the time he heard Harry's knock at the door. He started upright, ignoring the spasm of pain that shot down his leg and glanced around the room, suddenly worried that the evidence of his mental state would be obvious. Having ascertained that nothing was out of place however, he steadily made his way over to the door.

"Johnny!" As per usual in bounded Harry, arms wide open, practically knocking John off his feet as she all but threw herself at him.

"Steady on, Harry!" He mumbled gruffly, as always, leaning against the door frame to regain his balance.

"Sorry!" she exclaimed brightly, clearly not meaning it, "How are you feeling today then, baby bro? It's gone 1 o'clock and I bet you haven't even had breakfast yet have you?" She bustled into the kitchen, nattering on, barely letting him slip more than a "Yeah, not too bad, thanks," and a guilty "No, not just yet," into their conversation.

"So, your appointment's at what 2.30? I'll quickly throw some food together - this is your fridge we're talking about though, God only knows what it'll be! - And then it's no trouble for me to drop you off for therapy on my way to the hospital. I'm afraid you'll have to take the tube back though if that's alright, my sodding shift doesn't finish until 8 and then Clara's taking me out to the cinema. There's a new film on, with – Ooh, What's-his-face? Something-or-other Bandersnatch in." She beamed over at him briefly, before contorting her features into a mask of worry. Worrying had never suited her. Harry had always been a bit of a free spirit, John thought numbly, knowing exactly where this conversation was heading. "John – I - that is- You will be careful won't you? You- you won't do anything stupi-"

"What? Harry, no, that's fine by me! I'm perfectly capable of taking the underground by myself, thanks very much! What am I going to do? Jump in front of a train?! I'm fine, honestly!"

Her mask was slipping, that easy, infectious grin returning, as she turned back to resume her rummaging through the fridge. John hoped she wouldn't notice the bullets he had shoved behind the milk. "Alright, alright, Johnny! Keep your wig on, there's no need to be so defensive. I only meant for you to be careful!" She had pulled out an assortment of stale bread and cheeses, slightly squishy tomatoes, a pot of mayo and some raspberry jam and was surveying it on the work surface, trying to hold back her laughter. "Yum! What a feast, hey! Come and grab some before it rots in front of us."

With an exaggerated sigh, John staggered over to join her. She really did try hard. Not just to make sure he ate a reasonably balanced diet, got enough sleep and went to therapy, but to pull him out of his depression too. And he appreciated it. He knew he was a right pain in the arse for her, adding to her already hectic life, but she somehow always managed to lighten his gloomy moods and John couldn't bear to push her away. He was far too selfish for that.

An hour later, and with a guilty sense of foreboding hanging over him, John was clambering awkwardly into the passenger seat of Harry's vibrant red mini. Head hung low, he stared out of the window unseeingly, pretending to listen as she nattered on and on. Moaning about the weather and her work, babbling on excitedly about her and Clara's holiday plans for next month (they were going to Paris or somewhere) ranting about the LGBT situation in Russia… All John had to do was nod or shake his head occasionally and every now and again add the odd "Mmhmm…" and she was more than happy to carry on talking for England.

Mind numb, John watched the cars sail by in a blur of colour, trembling fingers absentmindedly playing with the seat belt. His thoughts wondered back to his dream that morning. Why would he have repressed such a memory? Afghanistan aside, the only other traumatic events in his life could be attributed solely to his complete bastard of a father. And this clearly had nothing to do with him. As far he could recollect, John hadn't seen him at all that day. But more importantly, he pondered, what had happened to Sherlock, the poor kid? He couldn't have vanished into thin air, that was for sure! John found himself wishing his memory was sharper, but he could barely remember the proceeding days as anything more than a haze of teenage enjoyment: sports games, parties and general pissing about with the lads…

"… John? John! Are you even listening to me?!" His sister was reprimanding.

"What? Yeah, yeah, of course, Harry! Go on, sorry, what were you saying?"

"No, it's ok. It doesn't really matter. Only this stupid traffic. I'm going to be late at this rate!" She glanced at the clock. "Oh, buggering hell!" She exclaimed, thumping the steering wheel in annoyance, before swiping a hand angrily through her unruly bleach blond hair. "I must've been nattering on for longer than I thought, you should've said something! Oh, I'm so sorry, Johnny, would you mind getting out and walking from here? It's only just round the corner you know, and it saves me from having to double back on myself and I'm running late as it is..."

John waved away her apologies with shake of his head. Hopefully she hadn't noticed his sigh. "It's fine, Harry, I _can_ actually walk, you know. And it's hardly far."

"Well- look… Only if you're sure!" She was already pulling over. John picked up his cane from the floor where it had fallen to over the course of the car journey, trying to ignore the familiar bubbling of humiliation he always felt at having to use it in public. Once the car had stopped he hauled himself out using the door frame for support, feeling his face heat at his helplessness. Before he could shut the door however, Harry had reached across.

"Wait! Let me at least pay for the tube home!"

John scowled, bitterly swallowing down the harsh reflex response of _'piss off_.'

"Thanks, Harry," he said through gritted teeth, "but really it's fine, I'm not on the streets just yet." He made to close the door, but a glare from his older sister stopped him short.

"Not a fucking chance I'm afraid, Honey." She told him, reaching over and unceremoniously shoving a note into his jeans pocket. His hands flew to his trousers, fumbling, protests rising to his lips, but before a single syllable could be uttered, she had winked at him with her bright, fiery blue eyes and sped off in a flash of metallic red.

John scowled deeply after her, before turning around and limping up the road with as much dignity as he could muster, head held high. He almost didn't see the homeless man on the corner, but he managed to avoid him just at the last minute, causing a sharp spasm of pain to jar through his leg. Trying to camouflage his wince, he glanced down in annoyance.

"Could you spare any change there, Sir?"

Perhaps it was the silver-grey colour of his hair, cropped short like John's, or perhaps it was the polite tone with which he spoke, clearly unhappy to be reduced to such meagre means, but John Watson felt a certain empathy, almost a camaraderie with this poor man, sat hopelessly on the street corner. After all, that could very well be _him_ in a few short months. London is impossible to afford on an army pension. John delved a hand (his right one, the steadiest) into his pocket and pulled out Harry's £20 note. This poor sod needed it more than he did. Without a second thought, he leaned down, twisting his lips into an unfamiliar lopsided smile and handed it to the homeless man. Then, having uttered not even a single word, he spun on his heel with surprising dexterity for a man whose limp merited a cane and continued on gallantly towards the clinic.

Greg Lestrade stared down at the crisp purple note clutched in his right hand. Slowly a warm grin spread over his face, reaching his dull, light deprived eyes.

"Well," he chuckled, moving his left hand down to fondly stroke the small rat hidden in amongst the blankets, whilst bringing the right up to rub through his stubble in thoughtful amusement, "this could certainly be interesting."


End file.
